Working for a celebrity is not all it's cracked up to be.
Whether or not we wanted to, we’ve all heard of her: America’s number one household icon, the fear-instilling queen of the domestic world, the woman rumored to have attempted running over her neighbor because he inadvertently pruned her rose bush—Martha Stewart. In fact, I needn’t even mention her last name. It’s like Madonna—she’s just Martha, preferably spoken in a posh Boston drawl. Everywhere you look, there she is, baking a five-tier wedding cake in fifteen minutes, upholstering antique French furniture or planting tulip bulbs on a brisk October morning while basting six roast chickens for a party that evening. And, if you followed her hectic itinerary last summer, you know she was also my boss.Before moving to Munich and getting this gig at Munich Found, I worked for three months as an intern at Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia in Manhattan. What many people don’t know about the domestic goddess is just how many hard-working people there are on her staff, those who put hours of work into every three-minute pastry display on her TV show or into each sentence in her magazine. I once spent six hours poring over galleys and taking the “s” out of each frequent use of the word “eggs.” Some of the employees are terrified of their reportedly bitchy boss. One woman even refused to borrow Martha’s umbrella one evening during a heavy thunderstorm, for fear she would forget to bring it back to the office the next day—she would rather catch pneumonia on her long walk home than risk inciting the wrath of the do-it-yourself diva.
One of the biggest differences between MSLO and Munich Found is that I was actually introduced to MF’s publisher, Angela Wilson. Most interns at MSLO only hear about Martha, as if she were a weighted word floating formidibly about, but never actually meet her. I knew the first day I started at MF that this was going to be different. I had just walked in and put my bag down when we convened for a meeting. Six of us sat around a small wooden table with several copies of the magazine in front of us. Angela tasted the coffee, wrinkled her nose and set it down immediately. “Who bought this terrible stuff?” she demanded. Neil Wilson pointed devilishly at the managing editor. “Oh, that would be Liz,” he teased, winking as he fibbed. Liz stared back at him in mock offense. “Hey! If you hadn’t told me I couldn’t spend those extra five marks, we’d be enjoying Dallmayr’s right now!” The whole group, Angela included, started laughing, and I knew at that moment that I had found the environment that perfectly suits my personality—amidst a group of hard-working, serious people who know how to relax and have a good time.
Yes, I’ve met Angela. I have even chatted with her about ski trips she’s taken with her family, joked about common German/English misunderstandings and griped about rainy weather. And if I hadn’t left the MSLO office one July evening at 7 pm, I may not have exchanged a single word with Martha during my stay there. But as it happens, I walked into the same elevator as she. We were on floor 38. She was all dressed up and obviously going out for the evening. Say something! Say something! I urged myself. We were on floor 24. What the hell should I say?? Floor 18. “Umm…nice shoes,” I heard myself croak. She looked at me, as if suddenly aware of my presence, pursed her thin pink lips into a tight smile, leaned over and whispered, “Very—old—Prada.” Then she straightened up, gave me a little nod and a wink, and the doors opened into the lobby. I heard her very old Prada heels clicking on the linoleum, but I stayed in the elevator until the doors had shut again. Had Martha Stewart just winked at me?
